She stands in front of the mirror, one hand braced on the sink, the other hanging loose at her side. The faucet is half-open. A thin stream of water runs steadily, its quiet hiss filling the small space, louder than it should be.
A long sigh leaves her chest.
FUCK.
The word falls flat, almost weightless, swallowed by tile and running water.
Her reflection doesn’t react. It just looks back, familiar yet strangely distant, like a photograph she has seen too many times.
Just when she begins to believe she finally has control, over herself, over her life,
life proves her wrong.
Everything is fine, until it isn’t.
She leans closer to the mirror. The faint smudge of eyeliner beneath her eye has softened into a grey shadow. She doesn’t fix it. She only watches.
She holds herself together. She thinks she knows who she is.
And then suddenly, she doesn’t.
Things begin to fade. Blur. Along with the tears slipping down through her empty gaze in the mirror. No tremble, no sound.
Her faith.
The certainties she once stood on.
Her own judgment.
And what remains are questions, and the worst of them, the nightmares.
When did it start to fall apart?
Where was the crack, the hole, the moment she missed?
What is actually certain?
What can she still hold on to?
What is even true anymore?
She is fluent in self-blame.
At least it gives the chaos somewhere to go.
Forgiveness feels like a word from a language she doesn’t speak.
She doesn’t know what it looks like, or how to begin.
The questions don’t arrive one by one.
They flood in, overlapping, relentless, filling every quiet corner of her mind until there is no space left to think, only to endure.
Where does she start now?
Who can she trust?
How does she look at the world again without flinching?
The pain is dull and heavy, not sharp enough to break her open,
but constant, like pressure behind her ribs,
like something pressing inward from all sides,
insisting on being felt.
Fuck.
Barely more than breath.
And pathetic.
Please stop.
She needs it all to stop.
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